


Remember- or don't, in fact, it's probably better that you don't.

by cruciomysoul



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Animated), DCU (Comics)
Genre: April Fools, De-Aged, M/M, prompt, screwball comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:46:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3229889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruciomysoul/pseuds/cruciomysoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Do you think you could do something along the lines of JayTimDick where one gets deaged and the other two look after/battle for attention?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember- or don't, in fact, it's probably better that you don't.

**Author's Note:**

> i hit 1,000 words before i even realised. ooops.

Dick doesn't actually remember any of it. Which, in hindsight, Jason thinks, is probably the best fucking news he has heard all year. (Which is pushing it, he knows, but come on, this was extremely traumatic for all parties involved (except Dick) and even then, you know,  _not_ remembering anything for Dick is just as traumatic. The kid - man, now,  _strives_ off of his memory.)

And, boy, is that memory precious. He knows exactly what Jason likes, exactly what Tim likes, exactly what they both like  _together._ Really, they'd all be screwed without it. Or not screwed, as the case may be.

But getting back to the original point: Dick doesn't remember. That means, most importantly, Jason can't be blamed. Tim can't be blamed either, technically, but Jason wasn't particularly worried about that.

* * *

 

"What do you mean Dick's had an accident?" Tim screeches down the phone and, Jesus Christ, TV lied to him, that son of a bitch. Running at full throttle and talking at the same time is not as easy as it looks. He can hear Jason coughing a little on the other end of the line, which is surprising, since Tim can't really hear much else besides his own laboured breath and the occasional gunshot.

(He's been involved in a shoot out, by the way. Word had gotten around about Bruce's 'absence', and well, what do you know? Everyone wants a piece of the Drake-Wayne pie.)

"Uh, well, you see, Tim-" Tim growls, cutting Jason off, and taking a sharp left down an alley.

"Where are you?" He bites out, shoving his shoulder up and tilting his head to the side, hoping the phone will stay put, his fingers clawing at the links in the fence as he hoists his body up, up and over and down. He carries on running.

"We're at the apartment." Tim nods. His ETA could be less than 15 minutes, if he upped his pace. Which he does.

"I'll be there soon as. How bad?" He mentally braces himself for the worst, feet pounding against the concrete. He's on a busy, populated street now, and he doesn't hear car tyres screeching or guns or other sets of pounding feet. Which is a relief, except it does nothing, because Dick is  _injured_. _  
_

"It's pretty- bad, Tim, like, I don't even know." Tim swears; he knew Jason was irresponsible. But this is ridiculous. He hadn't even been gone for more than three hours.

When he rounds the next corner, he can see the apartment block looming. It doesn't take him long to get there, and when he bursts through the front doors, completely ignoring the men and women in the foyer, he heads straight for the stairs. Sixteen flights later, he's barrelling through the front door and exhausted, covered in sweat, mud, something he's pretty sure is blood and also potentially his potentially not he doesn't really know, really, Bart's on clean up duty over there, it's fine, whoever's injured won't die (probably) and he coughs, because maybe he over did it (just slightly.)

"Tim?" Jason calls, and he doesn't seem as panicked now, but Tim can't respond because, you know, kind of struggling to breath a little. "...All that heavy breathing is kind of making you sound like Bane."

And there's Tim's voice. "Is this really the time for jokes?!" He all but yells, rushing around the corner, to the sitting room, to Jason and-

To Jason and... a toddler?

To Jason, a toddler, and the reminiscent of Dick's outfit from this morning.

To Jason, a toddler, the reminiscent of Dick's outfit from this morning and some horrendous tonnes of sparkly bullshit all over the floor, and sun glowing in the distance, covered partially by more skyscrapers-

"Where the fuck have the curtains gone?" Jason's face is stricken.

"That?! _That_ is what you focus on? The  _curtains?!_ Not the, oh, you know, the  _child_ in my arms or the fuckton of glitter on the floor, the fact that Dick is  _missing_. No, you focus on the  _curtains._ Because of course, heaven forbid anything ever happen to Tim Drake's  _drapes_!" Jason is positively seething, and okay, yeah, right, maybe Tim should have thought about the curtains last. But can you blame him? His nursemaid had handmade them!

Tim huffs. "Fine. Sorry. Where's Dick? Why do you have a toddler?"

"Dick's here, he's the toddler."

"Oh." Tim blinks. "Right. Why is Dick a toddler?" Jason just stares.

"I don't know." He answers eventually, and thinks, that perhaps Tim isn't taking this too well. "Maybe you should sit down." He says, "You look like you might pass out." Predictably, Tim ignores him.

"I'm fine. What happened?" He walks over to them, and inspects the child. Like, full on analysis mode; Jason can practically see the data running through his head.

"He opened a letter. It exploded. He... de-aged."

"...And the glitter?"

"The 'explosion'." Well. 

"I see. The curtains?"

"I don't think it's more than a prank. There was a note attached, and it said 'Have a fun week.' I mean, I'm no detective genius like you, but I think I worked the meaning of that out correctly."

"Jason, where are my curtains?"

* * *

 

It is a long week.

It is a long, seven day, laborious, week that pushes both men to their limits.

Why it pushes them, you ask? Well;

"We're terrible parents." Jason groans, hands covering his mouth. Dick is- well, Dick is gone. It's day five and their child has gone. Again. For the 27th time. Tim sags beside him, Jason can feel the weight on the sofa.

"I know. Oh my god, I know. I didn't think he'd still be able to do the acrobat stuff. He's like, what, 3 or 4 years old?"

"He grew up in a circus. I bet he learnt to swing on chandeliers before he learnt to walk." Above them, they hear the twinkling of chains and the lights flicker, ever so slightly.

"We should have just called Alfred." Jason looks at him,

"You're joking, right? We managed to lose him almost 30 times in this apartment alone. Can you imagine him in that mansion? He'd die of starvation before we found him."

* * *

 

Sleeping was a slight problem. They only had one bed. They didn't have any cots, and they sure as hell weren't going to buy any. So, they figured, they would just sleep as they normally would.

Jason on the left hand side, Dick in the middle, Tim on the right. Which was brilliant, because if Dick started crying in his sleep, it woke both of them up. (Not so brilliant, however, when on the first night, Dick forgot how to control his bladder. Thankfully, that was the only instance.)

* * *

 

And on the seventh day, God gave them rest.

When they woke, that eighth morning, it was to the pure bliss of having a normal sized Dick between them.

A normal sized Dick who seemed confused as to why he was in bed and-

ah, shit. He's missing an entire week of his memory. There's no way they can pass that off as 'sleeping off a concussion'.

"Your appendix burst." Jason blurts, panicked, and they both stare at him. He glares at Tim, because, really, help would be nice. Except Tim's giving him the 'you dug this hole, you climb out of it' kind of look, and Jason is, well, oops. "You passed out. We had to get you to the hospital, you had it removed, but there were some complications, and, like, you didn't wake up for a couple of days. You came around for a couple hours yesterday and the doctor's said it was fine for you to go, so we brought you home. Don't you remember?"

There was no way that would work. It wasn't even logically possible.

"Yeah," Tim mutters, "That's what happened."

"I don't- I don't remember any of this."

"That's okay. We'll fill you in in more detail after we've had some more sleep."

"But-"

"Shhhhh."

"Sleep. The doctor said you need to rest."

"I'm not sur-"

"Rest, Dick!"

"Wait-"

_"The doctor said rest!"_

* * *

 

Dick wakes again a couple of hours later, groggy and still confused.

Jason and Tim won't explain anything else, still citing tiredness as their reason. It's beginning to fluster Dick, a little, except he's kind of just content to lie there with both of them. It's rare to get a peaceful moment between all three of them like this, even if Dick is confused out of his mind.

"Hey, Dick." Jason says, nuzzling slightly into Dick's chest. Dick lets out a small grunt of acknowledgement, and Tim shuffles closer. "We're never having kids." He practically growls, mouth on Dick's skin.

Dick's eyebrows raise. "What?" He asks, politely.

"I'm with Jason. Kids are out of the question." Tim pipes up, from where ever his head is conveniently hidden. Dick's brows furrow.

"Don't I get a say in this?" Dick's a little put out, because when do Tim and Jason ever agree to something without at least squabbling for days over it beforehand? Just how delirious is he?

Tim's head whips up and Jason and he share look, before both turning eyes, eyes fierce and burning with determination and really laying down the law, toward Dick. "No." They say, and, really that's the end of it.

There will be no more kids in the Grayson-Todd-Drake-Wayne household, never, ever again, because, really, who wants to torture some poor innocent sap with four last names?

(And that includes Damian. Because Damian is evil and vindictive and abusive and seductive, and before they know it, there'll be an extra last name tacked on their door.)

* * *

 

**Bonus:**

"Where have the curtains gone?"  
"What curtains?"  
"The red ones, in the living room. We don't have any other curtains, Jason."  
"I have no idea what you're talking about."  
"Jason don't be stupid, you know which ones I'm on about, you got a concussion when we were trying to put them up, Tim's nursemaid hand made them."  
"Oh really? I don't remember any of that. At all."

And;

"Did you redecorate?"  
"No, why?"  
"I was just wondering where your curtains had gone."  
"I wasn't aware I owned curtains."  
"You had some red ones. They were hand made. They resided in the living room... Why are you looking at me like that? What are you doing? I don't have a fever, Tim, take your hand away. Stop. Tim. Tim!"

Also;

"You two are up to something. I know it. I'm not crazy. We had curtains. Red curtains."  
"I really have no idea what you're talking about."  
"Me, neither. If we'd have had curtains, I'm pretty sure they would have been blue."  
"You both hate blue."  
"Exactly. But you love blue."  
"We'd have got blue to please you-"  
"-And piss off each other."

Wait for it;

"Why is Damian still here?"  
"Don't talk like I can't hear you, Drake."  
"Sorry, why is the devil spawn still here?"  
"Uh... Well, you see, Tim, he's kind of-"  
"Don't you dare. Don't you dare say those words, Dick. If you say those words I am moving out and I am taking Tim with me."  
"That's a bit far, Jason, come on, be reasonable."  
"Okay, seriously, step away from the window, both of you."  
"No. Finish your sentence, then we'll decide which direction we step in."  
"Stop being ridiculous. Neither of you are wearing your equipment."  
"Let them be, Grayson. If they splatter, it only means more of you for me."  
"Damian!"  
"I knew it! How long has this been going on?! Dick, how could you?! We burnt Tim's curtains for you. His _curtains_!"  
"Wait what?"  
"What do you mean you burnt-"  
"Don't try to change the subject, dear! This is about Dick and Damian.  _Dick and Damian."  
_

To end it all;

"Apparently, we need a bigger bed."  
"I'm still not happy about this."  
"Neither am I."  
"Then leave. Nobody is forcing you two to stay. I am content for it to just be Grayson and I."  
"Like hell are we leaving you two alone!"  
"In that case, Todd, Drake, suck it up and deal with it. Or, allow  _me_ to suck it-"

 

**Author's Note:**

> i don't even have an excuse for this lunacy


End file.
